


a classic

by 24601lesbians



Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Crushes, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, High School, M/M, Orchestra, greta teaches music, righ? is a counselor, some frank-sized angst, some slow build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 06:59:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7834759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/24601lesbians/pseuds/24601lesbians
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sure, he hears the little “don’t date friends or people in your section at all” voice (for some reason, it sounds kind of like Pete’s voice, but that makes it weirder because Pete would never, never say something so disgustingly practical), but he mentally flips it off and comes to an understanding: Surprise! You like Mikey!</p>
            </blockquote>





	a classic

**Author's Note:**

> not my best, but i have a lot of irons in the fire at the moment.

It's seventh grade and the guys in the group of desks Frank was placed in are all talking about how hot making out with Macey Stevens is. Nevermind _how_ they all know exactly what it's like.

Frank doesn't really care about Macey Stevens. Why is she such a big deal when one of the eighth graders—Frank can't quite tell if they're a boy or a girl, and honestly there's contradicting evidence for both sides—is fucking ten times hotter? He doesn't quite understand Otter and that Pedicone kid’s discussion, and the girl who uses the fourth desk is absent today, so there's no input from her. She'd probably ramble about wanting to _be_ Macey, for fuck's sake. Frank can tell.

He ducks his head to the poorly explained algebra sheet and debates the pros and cons of sleeping on it.

x

On the third day of freshman year, the results of auditions mean that there are assigned seats in orchestra now. And that intimidating but pretty kid who was second chair for the last two years? Is his stand partner now. They haven't spoken in the past except for that one time Mikey wanted to borrow his rosin last year.

Maybe Mikey's been waiting to turn over a new leaf, though, because he smiles at Frank a little bit when they're packing up at the end of class.

"So, which part of the orchestra spectrum are you on?"

"What?" _I'm sitting next to you. You're a fucking viola. That makes me a viola._

"Straight? Less than straight? Undecided?" He pushes his glasses up with his right hand. "Both?"

Frank shrugs.

Mikey says, "Same." He throws the locks on his case and pushes the (pretty easy) music into an already-messy folder.

They start to have little conversations after the first week, when the teacher gets all "no, like _this_ ," on the second violins. "You ever wish you played something else, Way? So we could be, like, jamming with something loud and electric? Making our own mistakes and shit?" And when Mikey's like, "I'm saving up for something nice, actually," and Frank is interested as all hell, the seconds finally catch on and Salpeter makes them run the whole first page with everyone else.

It's not so bad. They're really the only pair in the section who are in tune with the rest of the orchestra, and he doesn't quite get why they're not the first stand, but he doesn't remember to be a jackass about it on four days of the week. That fifth day, though, he glares at the stupid seniors who just don't want to be in class at all and have therefore taken it upon themselves to be total dicks who just mail it in every day.

 

Mikey happens to be in the lunch line ahead of Frank one day, and he turns around pretty quickly when he hears Frank tapping his feet.  "Thought you were in A lunch?" he says over the head of the guy in line between them.

He shakes his head, holding up the milk carton. "'M just not usually in line."

"Well, watch yourself. That shit tastes like soap."

Frank knows. He's been forgetting to fill a water bottle before walking to school, and damn has he been paying for it.

He hands over the change for the milk and tucks himself into the corner of the cafeteria at that not-quite-level table with a gaping hole in it. Frank sees Mikey swing his head around a couple of times, possibly looking for him but probably not.

He forgets the water bottle _again_ on Thursday, which is honestly dumb as shit, so he's in line again and watching people cut in front of him when Mikey finally asks, "Dude, where do you sit?"

"The floppy table with the hole."

Mikey looks a little sad. "Alone?"

"Well, yeah." He might be mildly affronted, but the fact that Mikey looks bothered makes him feel better about it.

"Pay for the milk, loser, we're going to eat together. And since your lunch assignment is permanent until you graduate, welcome to the place to be."

He snorts, but lets Mikey steer him to his table and kick a chair at him. There are two blond guys, one possibly trying to sleep and one familiar.

"This is Gerard, that's James."

Frank knows James, but he smiles cautiously at both of them. He and Dewees were tight in elementary school, but when they got separated into the mess that's middle school, they kind of stopped talking, and Frank feels particularly bad about it right now. It feels longer ago than it actually is.

"Hey, Frankie." Dewees grins at him, and he thinks he's forgiven for whatever it was he didn't know he needed to be forgiven for.

Gerard just un-hunches for long enough to wave and mumble a "Hi."

When the bell rings and the other two bolt for the door to avoid the stampede of juniors, Mikey is balling up the bag he brought his food in. Frank offers, "Dewees and I go way back. That was nice. Gerard's kind of quiet," for lack of something else to say.

Mikey blinks. "That's the dumbest fucking thing I've heard come out of your mouth."

He's more than a little taken aback. "What?"

"Just you wait," Mikey says a little darkly.

He doesn't know what to make of that tone. "Dude, Mikey. What?"

"Wait 'til a time my brother’s not distracted by his girlfriend."

On the way to his locker to get his Spanish binder, Frank realizes that he was busy enough talking to Mikey that he didn’t realize that the now-blond Gerard was the person his little middle schooler mind had decided was hot. He shrugs. So the person was a dude. It’s not like Frank knew at the time.

 

The first time he sleeps over at the Way house, Mikey _showers_ in the morning and Frank pretty much has a breakdown when he tries to get changed in his room. Where Frank was peacefully occupying his blanket pile.

Frank keeps his eyes on the ground and moves at fucking light speed until he is in the kitchen and _not near naked Mikey, what the_ fuck. He covers the discomfort by helping himself to cherry poptarts (he’s not entirely comfortable doing that to other people’s food, but every time he shows up after school those are the exact words Donna uses, so he’s slowly adjusting to it) while sitting on the counter. The window above the sink faces a smallish tree with red and orange leaves.

Mikey comes downstairs concerned with damp hair starting to stick up in various directions. “You doing okay, Frank?”

Frank looks at the sink and says, “I kept putting off breakfast, and then I got really, _really_ hungry and stopped fighting it, or whatever,” instead of “Mikey, you magnificent bastard, those sweatpants are really low on your hips and it’s making me not breathe the way I should.”

“That seems like a lot of sugar, even for you.”

Frank swallows the last of the crumbs and flips him off. “You’ve seen nothing yet.”

 

And it’s true. Frank’s birthday party for the last two years has consisted of a candy binge paired with a morning-’til-morning movie marathon. He feels a little extra chub every time he does it, but he figures that if he survives another year because of it, then it’s probably good luck or something. This year, there are three other people, and he’s getting self-conscious, _fast_.

He rolls himself into some kind of blanket burrito and it’s peaceful to watch the Witch Lord of Angmar try to stab Frodo.

“Somebody’s not in the mood to--”

“Dewees,” Franks says threateningly. “Don’t finish that.”

“--taco bout it?”

Frank rolls at him, and he’s not out of the way fast enough to avoid getting run over. Gerard helps them both up and laughs at Dewees a little bit.

By the end of The Two Towers, there’s some kind of overcomplicated bet that Frank finds himself a part of. “Just get fifteen of them Mikes, it’s not like it’s hard.”

Mikey glares at his brother, but he’s still kind of smiling. “He’s a _moving target_. Your coordination’s not any better than mine. Actually, it’s probably worse.” The hand with the gummy worm drops while his voice turns thoughtful. “You don’t play any instruments.”

“Shut up,” Dewees says placidly, taking the gummy worms to throw another one into Frank’s mouth.

 

He goes to his dad’s for Christmas, and it’s nice, if a little detached. Frank is the oldest of all the cousins and step-cousins, so he talks to the youngest aunts and uncles while he helps their kids not eat batteries or the lights on the fake tree. His grandmother is arguing with his dad the whole time Frank is there, and silently, Frank thanks his mother for not letting her parents live with them. He does his best to listen to awesome music instead of listening to Granddad’s homophobic comments.

The orchestra does kind of shitty at Festival, because no one practiced over break except, apparently, him and Mikey and Patrick. The thing is, Patrick is the kind of good that means he doesn’t _need_ to improve, he just _does_. Every time he hears Patrick play, his confidence takes a hit, honestly. Frank could play the violin if he wanted to, but even if he put the rest of his life to it, it probably wouldn’t be like that.

Mikey gently stabs him with a an elbow or something every time he gets distracted like that. He just puts himself through the 32-note runs again and again until he gets where he wants to. Usually though, that’s the end of class. Mikey will say something vaguely offensive about the cellos, and the third chair cello will hear him, so he and Pete bitch at each other a little bit. And Frank gets better by the time everyone’s packed up and he’s on the way to English.

 

He goes over to Mikey’s after school more than he goes to his own house. It’s fun to try to learn the instruments together. To retrain their hands from working the necks of violas to, like, actual full-sized guitars. Frank thinks that chords are fucking awesome. In orchestra, he and Mikey either split the upper line and lower line at divisi sections, or he has to wrestle his fingers into doing dumb things while he attempts to keep the sound of a triple stop as smooth as the sound of a bow on one string. The guitar feels heavy and solid in his lap, and his elbows feel awkward for about thirty seconds, but the pick always feels right in his hand.

“Guitars, man,” he says to Mikey.

Mikey nods. He knows.

The week of high school where the seniors are gone is like the feeling he gets after good dreams with dogs in them. Salpeter really lightens up on them, so they’re playing arrangements of songs that Frank’s actually heard on the radio, and everything else she picks is NOT BACH and it feels good. His biology grade is finally above a B, he doesn’t worry about having to sit alone at lunch.

He and Mikey get passes from study hall to the practice rooms twice, and they do try rote stuff or jam for a little bit, but then their instruments fall to their laps and their bows get put on the stand so they can just talk.

x

All summer, he and Mikey keep saying, "We should probably get jobs," to each other, but it doesn't seem to happen. There are a number of sleepovers, both in the Iero apartment and Mikey’s house. Sometimes Dewees is over, too, but most of the time it’s just Frank, Mikey, and Gerard. Lots of junk food with good movies and shitty ones alike. In August, when it’s too hot to do much except invade Gerard’s room, they complain about no one hiring fifteen-year-olds.

Gerard laughs at them and says, “You’ll be thankful when you’re closer to being college students."

Nobody says it, but by the unimpressed look Mikey gives him, they’re both loudly thinking _Whatever, Gerard_. Mikey yawns and stretches, flopping until the blanket under him is just so. His head flips over the side, and he tries to watch his own hair sway when he moves. It’s ridiculous and great.

They go back upstairs to Mikey’s room around one, trying to think of stuff they can add to a hypothetical “Armageddon Milkshake” they started arguing about when they were taking a break from guitars to use the swings at the closest playground. The conversation gets slower and drowsier until he’s on the edge of sleep, Frank can tell, but Frank is still being eaten by the subject of their first actual conversation. It makes him fidget even more than usual, to the point where he’s looking like a coked-up Yorkie.

It’s probably 3:30 when he gives in and pokes Mikey with his feet until he looks away from the ceiling. “Hey, Mikey. Mikey Way. Hey.”

“What?”

“What was that shit the day we were assigned as stand partners?”

“What?” Mikey asks again. He’s honestly starting to sound like Frank now, which would be funny if he weren’t so set on getting an answer.

“You were like, ‘yo, how gay are you?’”

“Yeah.” He frowns sluggishly. “So?”

“So do you ask everybody?”

“No.”

He squints at Mikey, then feels more than sees the responding shrug.

“Okay. Well, y’know how I was like, ‘whatever?’” He shapes an A7 with the hand not propping his chin up, feeling his heart beat maybe a little too fast. “I think I’m bi.”

Mikey makes a muffled noise into his crossed arms. Then he says, “Okay.”

Frank wakes up with his head next to Mikey’s shoulder, like Mikey shifting might be what woke him up.

 

He’s in the third week of the sophomore World History class when Frank gets the first detention in his school career. It's some kind of substitute teacher miracle that he hasn’t gotten one before, really, what with all the swearing and pen-stealing he does. And the defiant posture. And the gestures. And jumping on people.

He says, "I paid twelve fucking pounds sterling for that, Alicia," just a _little_ too loudly and then she gets pale and her eyes flick up behind him.

He frowns, feeling something black and ugly in his stomach. Frank is trying not to crumple the badly-cut fake money in his hand.

"You can hang out in Mr. Schechter's office for the rest of class," Mrs. Fitzgerald says.

Alicia winces sympathetically, mouthing _Sorry, Frank_.

When he comes out of Schechter's office—the only highlight was finding out the guy's name is Brian, which he finds hilarious for some reason, and of _course_ it made him fight a smile while he was getting lectured—he's got two days of detention to write one essay for the sub and one essay for the normal teacher.

 

November is bullshit. Mixed with horseshit. Frank doesn’t know, mostly because it feels like there’s a thunderstorm inside his lungs and something moldy replacing his brain. A moldy hamster corpse. Frank is disgusting. His hair is greasy; he’s got wonderful dark circles from hacking himself awake every night, then doing it again after being asleep for ten minutes.

When he thinks the Robutusen or the Tylenol PM or the NyQuil is going to work, it doesn’t do shit. He wheezes and stumbles when he gets dressed, for god’s sake. The day he feels well enough to go to school, he makes it to noon before he vomits and leaves again.

The upside is that Mikey keeps coming over with tomato soup and Junior Mints (Frank thinks that’s a weird combination to nurse him back to health with, but he lets it go and croaks gratefully at Mikey) as well as homework (which he scowls at and procrastinates for over three days). He listens to the radio a lot.

Mikey coaxes him from his bed to the couch, snatching a trash can to set down in front of him in case of puke and/or tissues. Because by the time nearly everything else has abated, the snot comes.

If a bit of it gets on his chemistry homework, it’s not his problem.

After working on balancing chemical equations and whatever the fuck, Mikey makes him soup and steals another one of Frank’s blankets for himself.

“Frank, you want to watch Dawn of the Dead?”

He shakes his head slightly. The world gets a little blurry if he does it too fast, and he’s not really in the mood.

“M*A*S*H*?”

He grunts.

“Monty Python?”

He considers it. Why not? The worst that could happen is laughing too much ( _any_ laughing is too much, seriously) and blowing chunks, and he did that yesterday at some ebook that he started reading. “‘Kay,” he says hoarsely.

Mikey seems to realize pretty quickly that Frank is all but incapable of holding himself upright while coughing up his guts, so he just pushes Frank into the couch and settles behind him. Frank has zero energy to worry about body image right now, and honestly, he’s probably an unhealthy degree of skinny right now anyway. Mikey is giving off just the right amount of warmth right now, and he could totally fall asleep with a bony arm around his waist and his head on his best friend’s chest. Thank god the Ways don’t believe in stereotypical standards for male interactions.

 

Valentine’s Day kind of catches up to him in the middle of Spanish II, so instead of pretending to listen to Mrs. Daley while he copies Ray’s notes (surprisingly, neither Daley nor Ray has ever caught him), he pulls out a different notebook. It’s kind of old, but there are still sections of pages with nothing on them. He folds it open to a clean page and starts off a rough approximation of his plan.

After school Tuesday, he passes out the little presents to Dewees, Mikey, Gerard, and a new guy (who they immediately adopted to their lunch table when he transferred in January) named Bob.

“You know Valentine’s Day was Friday, right?”

“Yeah.” Inwardly, he winces. Sometimes he hates it when Gerard actually remembers what day it is. “It just took a while to make them.”

“Frank, I haven’t really been around long,” Bob points out, the wrapping paper untouched.

Dewees throws a wad of ribbon at him. “Shut the fuck _up_ , Bryar.”

Bob deserves his as much as everyone else. He’s on the quiet side, like Mikey, and doesn’t take any shit, which means Dewees is halfway in love with him in a “maybe no homo, maybe not” kind of way.

Frank smiles when Mikey looks up from the short tracklist of his cassette and says, “Thank you so fucking much. I’ll have to revive my aunt’s boombox to listen to it, but fuck, it’ll be worth it. Frankie, I love it already.”

He’s known Mikey for what feels like twice as long as the actual timeframe, but Mikey has only called him Frankie once before, when Frank saved his ass by warning him of a pop quiz.

Gerard bumps Mikey’s shoulder and grumbles until Mikey lets him compare the tape to his own. Frank made a different one for everybody, and he really tried to get them right. It took him a couple of days for him to get the balance of favorites and “I think you’d like this” for each person, but it’s not like he’s the only one Valentine’s Day has blindsided. Dewees forgot to get Frank extra tater tots on Friday when everyone else did, so he did it yesterday. They all take care of each other. Gerard got a 64 pack of crayons from _Bob_ , for fuck’s sake. It’s not the worst holiday in the world.

 

By March, Frank has a license (but no car) and Mikey has a car that he points out is only _half_ Gerard’s (but he has no license). They make some pretty grand plans about hunting down shows to go to, and then the nearest fast-food joint calls him back, and it kind of hits them that it’s perfect. They’ve got the money and the ride. Going to real shows, holy _shit_ , it’s almost too good to be true.

Frank’s place of employment is a cross between a diner and a Burger King. He recognizes the manager as some fuzzy-headed guy who graduated the year Frank was a freshman. Anyway, it smells like old people and fucking bacon in there all the time, but he’s making enough cash to help out his mom and set aside a little “for Frank purposes.” He might be considering a tattoo. _Might_. Shows still come first, though.

The first show that Mikey gives him a heads up about is sort of complete shit and the best thing in the world at the same time. He’s never _not_ doing this again. _God, it’s going to be like chasing a high_ , he thinks to himself on their way home. They have the front windows halfway down, both of them still sweaty from throwing themselves around to an amazing kind of noise that they could feel deep in their chests. Frank doesn’t miss a single stop sign on their way back home, and he drives very carefully just in case something bad happens. When he feels good like this, something is bound to knock him off his feet soon, and it’s better to be ready for it, right?

“Do you still feel it?” He meant to be quiet, but the words bubble up.

The way Mikey smiles loosely tells Frank he knows exactly what he means.

Frank smiles too, even though some asshole just pulled out in front of him.

Nothing bad happens that night, he just flings himself onto the blanket nest he makes on Mikey’s bedroom floor after he brushes his teeth and kicks away his pants. He knows he won’t mind paying for Mikey to get in the next time if Mikey can’t charm his way in for free.

x

Apparently one of the seniors from last year (of course she’s the kind who holds the torch for the Mailing it in Even Though it Pisses Salpeter Off attitude) got herself fucking held back, so something ends up twisted and Frank has to sit next to her. It’s horrifying.

The day their seats are assigned, Mikey says, “Just challenge her.”

It sounds good. Easy. And he doesn’t think about the possibility of being _another_ chair away from Mikey until the challenge is over and the class is done voting. Anna just pouts for the remainder of class and curses him out when he holds the door for her (he was holding it for Mikey, really, but it would be dumb to close it just for her until Mikey was done putting the viola away).

He almost sits in front of Mikey the following day, but realizes he’s moved up just as he pulls his case into his lap to unzip it. He’s uncomfortable as he moves into the first chair. Now he’s alone; Patrick is a chair away, Anna is snarking next to him so much he can’t even try to rile up Pete. She’d punch both of them. And Mikey is in a different row entirely.

Mikey doesn’t try to challenge Anna.

 

Frank is down and out for a week before Mikey weasels it out of him that his mom’s dad is in the hospital.

“Frank.” He can hear the frustration, but he can also hear the softer undercurrent of _It sucks when you’re hurting but I’m here_. “Frankie. Do you want to skip Health and go see Righ?”

On one hand, no, because the counselors are made to ask you about your shit. On the other hand, Steve-who-is-not-a-dick would be easier to face than a test he didn’t study for. Plus, he knows Righ will also write Mikey a pass, too, and Frank thinks that he deserves an hour to not look at STD aftermath.

He closes his eyes, grips Mikey’s hand briefly, and stands up. “Yeah,” he says tightly.

The hand on Frank’s back might be rubbing circles to keep him calmer, but it’s like. Fortifying him. Same for the flickers of smile-hope-yes that pop in his stomach when Mikey says “Frankie,” like Frank is some kind of special. He lifts his head up a little higher, and then they’re fake-smiling at the secretaries and asking if Righ is in.

“You’re right, he’s in,” a voice calls from the side room. The middle-aged secretary rolls her eyes at the really old one. Mikey and Frank skirt the lost and found before slipping through the door.

“Hey,” Frank says, hands twitching like he wants to do something.

"Hey," Righ says, rifling through the back of one of his drawers. "Do you want a peanut butter cup?" Neither of them answers before he shoves two of them at the students.

Frank ignores the candy. "Okay. My grandpa was like, super close to not surviving a stroke he just had. And it's freaking me the--it's freaking me out. He's inspired me to play until my hands are exhausted and stuff." He hasn't told Mikey that, let alone someone else. But the combination of Mikey's reassurance and Righ's calm is helping him balance.

“What do you play?” The counselor’s voice is steady. Mikey swings an arm around his shoulders. Frank is so fucking glad Mikey stayed. He tips his head back against Mikey’s shoulder to stare at the ceiling’s harsh lights.

“Viola and beginner guitar. Nothing fancy.”

“Except the shredding that you do when I leave the room.”

Frank thinks it’s completely unnecessary to mention that because it's different. “That’s different.”

“Why?”

He fights to keep his face from flushing. Somewhere, he knows Mikey must have heard him--he’d be stupid not to assume it--but a part of him wanted it to be more private. “It’s between me and the strings. It just _is_.”

"Alright, alright. Have--"

"I was just really looking forward to being good enough to play right next to him and now I might not be able to have that chance and I really don't want to spend the rest of my fucking life questioning whether I'm any good compared to him." Everything is coming out in a rush. He feels like he's trying to swallow tea that's so hot his eyes are watering.

“If he’s going to need to retrain his hands, you can probably be on the same page,” Mikey suggests quietly. “Think about how neat it would be to grow at the same time and to be able to help him instead of it being just the other way around, Frankie.”

Frank spends the rest of December visiting his grandpa instead of doing his homework, and it takes some effort to swallow his pride, but he lets Mikey help him when he needs it.

 

And then what the fuck, Mikey is dating someone.

Frank has never even seen this guy before, but a-fucking-pparently he’s been in orchestra the whole time, because Mikey turns around to mouth things at the bass section when Salpeter is distracted. Sure, he hears the little “don’t date friends or people in your section at all” voice (for some reason, it sounds kind of like Pete’s voice, but that makes it weirder because Pete would never, _never_ say something so disgustingly practical), but he mentally flips it off and comes to an understanding that _Surprise! You like Mikey!_ He forces his foot to stop tapping. It’s been a habit since he figured that a New Year’s resolution (not causing trouble) was a good idea.

The first issue is the part where Mikey leaves the lunch table. He doesn’t hate Gabe for sweeping him off his feet or whatever, Frank just feels off-balance. Gerard and Dewees don’t seem to care, and Bob is visiting a college right now anyway, so he’s not here to care if he wanted to.

Mikey stops sending him links to weird things on Amazon during English. He invites Frank to stay over once in three weeks. It’s a big distance. Frank really did try to be nice to Gabe up until Mikey told him that if he kept being so sweet, they would both get jealous of each other. “It’s kind of creepy, dude,” were the actual words, but Frank knew. He fucking knows Mikey too well for this shit. He’d be better than Gabe at reading Mikey, that’s for fucking sure. But, you know. Whatever. If he wants Gabe, he can have Gabe. Who is Frank to consider the gray areas in Gabe’s dating history.

“Mikey this, Mikey that,” Gerard says to him one day when they see Mikey going back to the lunch line to grab poptarts and a plastic knife.

Frank looks up from the homework he hadn't finished the night before. "I didn't even say anything! Stop doing that."

Gerard rolls his eyes. "You watch him all the time. You've gotten bitchy since the lack of sleepovers." He hold up a third finger, dead set on counting off his list. "You always leave him alone when he wants to be left alone. You won't let him cheat off of your essays. You won't let him read your writing. You let him borrow your copy of The Catcher in the Rye. Your personal copy, not school property."

Mikey is approaching the table and Gerard is still going. He taps his fingers nervously, willing Gerard to just close his mouth before anything gets awkward. "You give him the rest of your--" Mikey sits down. "--food when you're not hungry."

"Frank has more food?" he asks doubtfully.

Gerard holds up the remaining fingers of his left hand, like a little This Definitely Isn't Over wave. "No, Mikes. We were just talking about which sandwiches suck the most when you aren't hungry."

"Pastrami and cheese," he says immediately.

"Pastrami and cheese. Told you," Frank says semi-convincingly.

“Gee, can you spot me a buck fifty? Gabe and I want fries and he paid last time.”

Gerard tilts his head and picks his pencil up. “My wallet’s in the bottom of my bag. Go fish.”

 

Gerard drags them to a show in mid-April, threatening them with the diner afterward. 

It’s not bad. Frank has seen the band twice before, so he knows when to yell words and when throw himself headlong through all the people who have grouped themselves in the pit. It’s still not as messy as what Gerard has told him of the breakup. Not mutual, like Mikey told them when he brushed Dewees off because yes, they’d all tried to ask. Gabe was just more interested in some girl from his theater class and didn’t “want to lie to or cheat on Mikey" because he "had more respect than that.” Frank still considered him to be kind of a dick. It's in some friend rule book, probably.

When Gerard had picked Frank up tonight, Mikey wasn’t in the car or anything. “I’m taking you to a show before you have so much pent-up energy that you permanently talk too fast. The passenger door lock is being a dick again, so sit in the back.” 

“I just didn’t want to go,” he’d said, trailing off into mumbling about Bob and Dewees wincing and saying “pass” whenever he tries to ask them, like they’re pretending to be snobs.

"Sure."

That much conversation brought them to what he thought was Alicia's driveway. Frank hadn't thought about going to any shows with Alicia, but with the idea rolling in his head, he'd kind of liked it, figuring she'd probably be chill, but she would understand the energy. He had just gotten out his phone to suggest it when the passenger door opened (and the fucking Betrayal of the Year Award goes to Gerard Way, for being fucking extraordinary in his field) and Mikey sat down. 

Gerard took off before Mikey even got his seatbelt on, which in hindsight is probably not the nicest thing he's done.

Frank was already clutching his phone at that point, like if he ignored Mikey enough, Mikey wouldn't notice his existence. Naturally, it failed.

"Gerard," he started.

"Child locks," Gerard said firmly.

Frank threw his head back. Of fucking course. "At least there's music."

"Fine." Mikey had slipped into the careless, it-isn't-fucking-fine tone that Frank hated.

But, at any rate, they didn't have to pay to get in. Gerard had pushed them forward and said, "These assholes are with me," before the bouncer just waved them in.

It tires Frank out. He doesn't know where Mikey and Gerard are, but he can understand that they won't leave without him. He ducks under some skinny girl’s arm and gets back into the zone.

After the set, he pushes out to the wall with the door just like he normally would, and he’s pleased that Mikey and Gerard are on either side of the door and keeping an eye on the people approaching or passing through. The tension in the car sucks. It’s ruining the high Frank got from the music.

"Smoke break," Gerard says when they're waiting for food but he's finished the round of diner coffee.

“I don’t get smoking,” Mikey says tiredly. “Gabe liked to smoke after? But it just doesn’t make sense. Not like we didn’t already smell or anything."

Frank likes the oversharing from pre-Gabe Mikey better than the post-Gabe version. “I see.” He goes outside with Gerard, more seeing than watching the cars come by.

"I get it."

"Get it? You won't ever get it."

"And that's okay." He takes a drag. "I feel like I'm talking to myself, sometimes. It's a little off after having all this time to broadcast every fucking thing I feel with the paint nights and then having to quit. For a job that doesn't want to see that."

Frank pulls his sweatshirt sleeves over his hands, still not talking.

"He'll see this eventually, Frankie. And you don't have to take your time. Mikey just thinks things can be ...unattainable sometimes."

After that night, Frank questions some of Mikey's snapchats. There's a tiny chance they're Gerard's fault, but if Mikey hasn't noticed Frank's reactions at all, then he would be too dumb for subtle hints like these with or without help. Some (the disappointed ones) are definitely about Gabe, but there are some that give Frank a gut feeling that they're meant for him. He tries not to screenshot any of the quietly sappy kind, but one or two he has to send to Alicia with a follow-up message of "Who comes to mind when you read this?"

She agrees. She eggs him on, even, to the point where he sometimes gets a surge of _I feel lucky_ and almost texts Mikey to ask him what he means by them. Frank chickens out every time.

 

Eating lunch at the end of the year without Gerard is really, really weird. No one sits in his chair, but they all keep looking at it. Conversation is at a minimum; not just because Gerard is gone, but because finals are kicking everyone’s asses. Even Bob looks like he wants to drown himself in, like, something nasty Frank can’t think of right now. His brain is _fried_.

“School is bullshit.”

No one says anything over their study guides, but they all agree, he knows.

At the end of the day, he has study hall, and Mikey sits awkwardly on Frank’s table in the back.

“So, we don’t have a lot of family coming to graduation, but we still have the spots as if we did, and I was wondering if--Gerard and I--you would sit with us for that?” When Frank hesitates (he doesn’t know his mom’s work schedule right now), he takes it as a moment of doubt. “Frankie, I know that there were. I said some things a while ago, but I promise I didn’t mean, y’know, fucking _any_ of them.”

He could be an asshole. He could be an asshole right now and just completely chop everything off.

There’s no fucking way that he actually will. “I get the stress thing.”

Mikey chews his lip. “Do you have to work?”

“No, no, it’s just that my mom might.”

“We can pick you up. If you don’t mind being early?”

x

Frank realizes just how much he likes Mikey, and it sends him ass over teakettle. Metaphorically. In reality, he starfishes across his bed and says, "Fucked," and means it. No way is Mikey going to be willing to fuck up a friendship for some leap that might put them over a cliff. He knows that neither of them would ever want orchestra to be awkward, and it's a pretty high chance if he does something fucking stupid. He wants someone to jam with and talk about everything and nothing with.

But on the other hand, it's senior year. If he fucks up, he just has to make it to May and that's it and he can make new friends in college or whatever. If he does this, he has to plan it out _carefully_ , because it's _important shit_ and it feels fragile. He can't just put the Return of the Jedi "hold me" move on Mikey (he can't put any Star Wars move on Mikey for fear of being laughed at in addition to the whole no-best-friend thing). It takes him six days to come up with some way to tone down the "you mean too much and I mean it in the best way but this isn't fucking platonic you kiss my head when you know I'm not even asleep and you hold me way too close to you for it to not mean something" type things he wants to look Mikey in the face and say.

He lasts until November before he does say something. He pulls Mikey aside into the hallway niche that has vending machines that don't work. Both of them have really tense posture, even though there haven't been any words yet. His eye contact is shit, but Mikey's shoulder is going to have some real things to consider soon. "Fra—"

"Just. Hear me out. Please." His eyes flicker up and he thinks, _I can do this. This can work._ "You are fucking awesome, and when you jam with me, we're great. But like, there are different kinds of great, and I don't know if you mean it to be platonic-great or, like, not?" His voice wavers a little bit and his hands are tense and he can look at Mikey's face now. Because Mikey is looking at a green poster for some kind of drama tryout instead of Frank.

Frank wants to move, just get out of here and eat lunch at the wobbly table by himself again. He bites his cheek and holds very, very still instead. He tried hard enough to talk to Mikey about it, he can get through the time it takes for Mikey to say something back to him.

When he pushes his glasses up, Frank immediately feels like he's in the buildup for a two week run of bronchitis, breathing-wise. Mikey looks like he does when Mr. Armstrong asks where his homework is and he's trying to be careful. Frank might be going to die until graduation.

"I, well. Not sure about that." He probably has a fighting chance.

They have a five-hour jam at Frank's the next weekend, since they just finished a round of movies and the guitars might have felt a little neglected.

 

The next month is the first time in almost a year that he sleeps in the Way house again. They're doing more gaming than talking, but in the third round of Halo, he’s starting to feel better.

“I tried to challenge Anna,” Mikey says suddenly. “Last year, after school a couple of times. It was weird without knowing you were there, you know? Nobody has your back if it’s just you and Anna and Salpeter in a room trying to work your shit out.”

Frank cracks a smile. “I’d rather have a whole assembly watch than just those two.”

“As long as I’m in the front row.”

“I accept the terms and conditions.”

Mikey pokes him with the controller. “Your geeky ass needs to start going outside sometimes.”

And just like that, Frank’s comfortable again.

 

All the way through February and March, everything is completely fine except for the quiet buzz of _something_ that keeps showing up. Frank gets a lot of time to practice staying still and not smiling too stupidly at Mikey. Bob and Dewees keep giving him shit about hanging around Alicia, but it’s really just nice to blow off steam about Mikey while she kicks his ass at a wide range of video games.

Mikey eventually calls him about going out to a show, but Frank can't make it because he's finishing up some of his volunteer hours at a tiny animal hospital. He does invite Mikey to come over afterward.

"I might be later than usual. This one was a little out of the way."

"It's alright," Frank says, and he means it.

Mikey is tired from the late night and the stress of the highway; Frank is tired from holding animals down to be given their shots. Without talking, they decide to just game.

Mikey dozes off, so Frank pushes a pillow under his head and keeps playing. The last thing he remembers is a low battery warning.

He opens his eyes hours later, settled against Mikey's side--like his body yells he fucking _should_ be--but can't get back to sleep. Frank sticks his own hands in his pockets to fish out some paper that keeps poking him in the side. He rolls closer, shoves the game controller off of Mikey's stomach, and breathes deeply before he reaches across Mikey and twists his hand into his hoodie's right pocket.

When Mikey wakes up, Frank's hands still won't disentangle themselves from the fucking hoodie.

Mikey clears his throat. "Hey."

"Yeah." _Wait, shit_. "I mean hey."

Mikey laughs and twists to look at Frank. "I thought you planned on staying awake?"

He shrugs.

"Same."

Under his elbow, he feels Mikey's breathing change. This time, this time  _for sure_. He's looking at his mouth, goddammit.

He feels himself shift a little and then Mikey is kissing him, fucking finally.

“Sorry.”

Frank is distracted. “What?”

“I have morning breath.” Oh. He picks some lint off of Frank's collar, squinting slightly at it it. “Don’t laugh at me, Frank.”

He eyes Mikey. “I’m not going to laugh at you. But I’d still make out with you with or without toothpaste.”

“You’re gross, and you snore.”

“Don't be rude, Mikeyway. Okay, wait. How’d you—why do you think I snore if you always fall asleep first?”

“I learned how to fake sleep convincingly. Sometimes there are movies that Gerard likes and I don’t, and I don’t really want to crush his soul or whatever.”

Mikey’s hands are in Frank’s back pockets. He’s grinning too much for the next contact to count as a kiss. “Scoundrel.”

Mikey goes stone-faced, and Frank notices that he's blinking like his eyes are trying to close him off from the world. “You like me because I’m a scoundrel. Stay the night?”

“Yes.” They’re both slightly out of breath, and Mikey’s glasses are still somewhere on the floor. Frank kisses him again.

Late the next afternoon, Frank is pleasantly surprised that Bob has texted him. He’s more surprised by the “dont have to answer this and i thought you were already together but you and mikey are a thing right” that follows the ringtone. It's a record for the longest text he has from Bob. _Mikey and I are together_ , Frank confirms. He thinks about it for a second, then forwards that one to Dewees.

Dewees, however, responds with “I thought he was helping Gee move today?”

Frank sighs and types, _No, he is, we’re just dating now._

With the little beep comes, “You’re dating Gerard?” and Frank debates whether or not he should throw his phone across the room. He also considers how that relates to the possibility of Dewees just being an asshole.

The next text proves it--”I’m just fucking w you, we all saw it coming. Happy apr fools.”--but Frank just laughs at himself, making sure to screenshot it to show Mikey later.

**Author's Note:**

> i don't want to fish for comments ...but i want to fish for comments


End file.
